


Objection!

by spikesgirl58



Series: Working Stiffs [36]
Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:59:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When THRUSH sues UNCLE for restraint of trade, it will take a very special lawyer to win the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Objection!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tafizgurl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tafizgurl/gifts).



Okay, just cut me some slack.  I’ve heard all the jokes; I’d heard all the jokes before I even took the bar exam.

_What do you have if you have three lawyers buried up to their necks in sand?_

_Not enough sand._

_How many lawyers does it take to change a light bulb?_

_Fifty four. Eight to argue, one to get a continuance, one to object, one to demur, two to research             precedents, one to dictate a letter, one to stipulate, five to turn in their time cards, one to      depose, one to write interrogatories, two to settle, one to order a secretary to change the bulb,          and twenty-nine to bill for professional services._

_What do you call a dozen lawyers at the bottom of the sea?_

_A damn good start._

_  
How do you tell the difference between a dead skunk and a dead lawyer lying the road?_

_There will be skid marks before the skunk._  
  


_Why don't sharks eat lawyers?_

_Professional courtesy._  
  


_Why do scientists prefer lawyers to rats as test subjects?_

_There are some things rats just won’t do._

_How many lawyer jokes are there?_

_Four, the rest are true stories._  
  


Enough!  We are hard working and deserve just as much credit as a doctor or any other professional.  I am proud of what I do and who I work for.  But that doesn’t stop the jokes or the cracks or any of the grief that people pile on us.  Do you realize that only about one percent of the population can actually make our claim?  We are the few, the chosen, we are lawyers!

 

After graduating and passing the bar, I’d expected to find myself a nice little law firm and work my way through the ranks.  My target was to be a junior partner by the time I hit thirty, not too old, not too young.  Then, if I was really lucky, I’d make senior partner by fifty.  I wasn’t afraid of hard work, long hours or the occasional groveling at the feet of my bosses.

 

At least that was the plan.  Life has a funny way of switching midstream on you.  After two years of sharpening pencils and stapling depositions, I was champing at the bit, ready to at least help with the preparation of a case, any case.  Then a very nice bastard told me exactly what my chances were of getting recognized as long as he was drawing breath.  Nice, huh?  No honor among thieves or lawyers.

So I was getting plastered in a no name bar when this little old man approached and climbed up onto the stool beside me.  Alcohol has loosened better lips than mine and the next thing you know I was babbling my life story to this guy.  I didn’t know him from Adam, but there was something about him.

The next morning I woke up with a pounding in my head and a card in my pocket.  Written on the back was just one line “Ever thought of working for your uncle…? I’m sorry… UNCLE?”  I didn’t realize the significance of the capital letters until later.

 

The one thing that working for an international agency provides you with is scope.  I have to deal with just about everything as one of UNCLE’s lawyers.  We have Solo’s nearly monthly paternity suits, Kuryakin’s breaking and entering charges… His Grand Theft Auto record is pretty lengthy as well.  He’s gotten arrested for more things than seventeen of your average citizens and he’s not even an American.

Still, I have to say it’s never boring and it’s never the same thing twice.   I was sitting at my desk, eating a brat and sauerkraut on a hoagie roll and flipping through a half dozen briefs, when there was a knock at the door.

“Sam, you have a visitor.”  Now normally, Aggie would have just buzzed me, so I figured it was something big and immediately I whisked the sandwich into a drawer, left empty for this very purpose, and wiped my mouth.  I took a slug of soda, swishing it around and hoping it was enough to kill any halitosis that might be lingering.

I’d just made it to my feet when Mr. Waverly walked in.  I tried not to let that effect me – the Big Cheese, the Head Honcho, the Main Man… Well, my boss, the only man who could have me dismissed on the spot, and he was in my office.

“Mr. Waverly, sir.”  I shook his hand, easy because mine was shaking already, and gestured to a chair.

“Mr. Marcus, how are you?”  He sat and smiled sort of apologetic-like.  “I’m sorry for interrupting your lunch.”

I didn’t insult him by denying it – the room reeked of sauerkraut.  “I figure you have to strike when the iron is hot.  I don’t imagine you get many breaks in the action upstairs.”

“No, very few indeed.”  He harrumphed and adjusted his coat for a moment.  I knew he was trying to find the words that would give his concerns the proper light and just waited.  I got paid the same whether I was talking to a client or sitting on the can.

“I have a matter that I would like you to look into.  It’s a rather delicate matter.”

Now, we’d all heard of Mr. Waverly’s rather ribald youth, although ninety percent of it was hearsay.  He’d had a couple of indiscretions as a young man, the sort that made him turn a blind eye and deaf ear to Mr. Solo’s dalliances.  I think Solo reminds Waverly of a youthful version of himself… but I’m digressing like hell.

“Yes, sir.”

“UNCLE, it would seem, is being sued… for restraint of trade.”

Let me take a minute to explain restraint of trade.  In short someone, often a competitor, is suing us because UNCLE isn’t allowing him, for one reason or another, to practice his business.  I could only think of one competing business that UNCLE would try to restrain.

“Sir, you don’t mean…?”

“Yes, we are being sued by THRUSH.”

I kept waiting for him to start laughing, slap his knee and announce that he’d put one over on me.  But he didn’t.  He just kept looking at me with those cool gray eyes and I realized he was serious.

“Do you have the papers you were served with?”

He took them from an inner pocket and passed them over.  I scanned them, but they seemed real and in order.

“What would be your recommendation, Mr. Marcus?”

“We can’t exactly go to trial with this.  It would be hard to find a jury of your peers, sir.”  I set them aside.  “I would ask for a dismissal.”

“Why would you do that and why would a court grant it?”

“It’s obvious that they are just doing this as a way of misleading us while they are trying for an end run.  Yet the reality remains, this is a viable legal document and we have to respond to it.”

“How?”

“File an answer. I suppose we could file a counter claim, hand them back the same… possibly sue them for damages?  Libel?”  I offered.

“Whatever you see fit, Mr.  Marcus.  I will support your decision.”

“All right -- I need to talk this over with the rest of the legal department, sir, and I’ll let you know.”

 

Okay, so we ended up with _in camera_ hearings – behind closed doors, for those of you who don’t speak the language.   In the meantime, however, it was business as usual:  THRUSH tried to take over the world every chance it had, UNCLE thwarted them every step of the way.  Sometimes I wondered what would happen if we let them take over the world, if only for a little while.  Would THRUSH drown in red tape?  Would they be able to stop the hunger, disease, unrest, and world poverty?  Would they even try?  Those were worries for another day.

Until I came up with something better, drowning them in paperwork seemed to be the way to go.  We argued jurisdiction – both personal and of question, we argued venue, which included a motion to inspect premises – of THRUSH Central.  That argument went on for a while!   We filed discovery, we requested mountains of documents, we scheduled depositions – which oddly enough never seemed to get taken – and we argued motions to quash discovery.  They filed petitions for restraining orders, we filed counter petitions…  We wrote briefs, they wrote briefs.    And yes, _only a lawyer could write a 100 page document and call it a brief_.

Finally, it had come down to this: their lawyer and me, staring daggers at each other over a table.

Their lawyer, a camel faced dipstick from some place down South, thought his crap didn’t stink.  I’m sure he had an equally unpleasant description for me, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass at this point. 

We’d set up a neutral spot for a court-ordered mediation -- a place for representatives of both of our organizations to meet and discuss the issues like civilized men – HA!  Excuse me, I got carried away there for a moment.

First up for testimony was Mr. Solo.  Now I have to hand it to the man, he is a first class actor and a born manipulator.  He could sweet talk honey from a bear’s mouth and then make the bear run to get him some more.   He was sworn in and took the hot seat as if he was out on a Sunday drive with his beloved auntie.  His suit was impeccably cut and the color suited him.  He looked no more dangerous than your run-of-the-mill financial advice counselor.

“So, Mr. Solo, how long have you been with the UNCLE?”

“A few years.”  Napoleon smiled at him, a ‘go suck an egg’ smile, and crossed his legs.

“And in all those years you have never had any trouble with UNCLE’s policies?”

“No.”

“Is that because you fear punishment for speaking the truth?”

I opened my mouth to object, but Solo gave me a ‘don’t do that’ look and I didn’t.

“That would be the other guys,” he replied.  “The ones you work for.  Mine don’t shoot you for telling the truth.”  A rumble of laugher went through the room.  The THRUSH lawyer’s face flared and I should have told him to get used to it.  Every time he asked a question, Solo sidestepped it.  He always spoke in support of UNCLE, he always had an explanation and in the end there was nothing their lawyer could do but ask him to step down.

“Mr. Kuryakin.”

Illya Kuryakin, UNCLE’s answer to a time bomb, singlehandedly responsible for blowing up more THRUSH property than any three other agents combined.

He was dressed in his usual black suit with white shirt, looking more like a stock broker than a dangerous agent.  I was first out of the gate and I smiled at him, then passed him a photograph.

“Exhibit K-1, please.  Mr. Kuryakin, did you blow up this facility and, if so why?”

“I did not.”

“Would you care to explain that for the benefit of our illustrious colleagues?”

“The whole place was a death trap just waiting to go up.  The wiring was shoddy and in violation of the building codes.”  A projector flashed on and there was a shot, slightly grainy, of frayed wires with bare copper showing.  “I was taking film of something else and that was part of the shot.  As you can plainly see, the insulation is missing.  An inspector would have condemned the whole place on the spot. My professional opinion is that an outside object came into contact with the wiring.  The resulting spark ignited some improperly stored chemicals,” another photograph flashed onto the screen, “and set the structure on fire.”

“Professional opinion?” I questioned , confident of his response.

“I am certified…” he slowly slipped a hand into his jacket -- every agent in the room reached for a weapon – and, withdrawing his wallet, continued, “by both Her Majesty’s Railroad Inspectorate and the International Association of Explosives Engineers as a demolitions expert.”  He passed me two small cards, which I handed on to my THRUSH counterpart.  “And by the New York Fire Department,” another card, “as an arson inspector.”  He smiled.  “I am also a graduate of the explosives training courses of the _Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye_ , but alas, have no certification from them to show you.”

I guess he has to do something to pass the time when he’s on medical leave…  “Then, Mr. Kuryakin, in your professional opinion, what was that outside object?”

“A bullet, specifically a 7.63 round fired from a modified Mauser C96, a model commonly used by THRUSH agents.”

“How do we know it wasn’t one of your bullets?” the THRUSH lawyer asked and Kuryakin looked at him and hunched his shoulders. 

“We were using sleeper rounds.”

“So you could bring back hostages for torturing?”

“That is irrelevant to the issue at hand, which is restraint of trade, and I would say that THRUSH is its own worst enemy.  It burned down its own warehouse – one wonders if they also filed an insurance claim -- and is simply blaming UNCLE instead of admitting the truth.”

“Why wouldn’t they want to admit the truth?”  I tried to make the question sound casual.

“And ruin a perfectly good track record of lying?  That seems rather pointless.”  The same rumble.  The THRUSH attorney’s questions grew a bit more aggressive and even slightly insulting, but Kuryakin met it all with an air of _ennui_ until he was finally allowed to step down _._

“Now I’d like to call Alexander Waverly.”  Their lawyer looked around the room.  “Is he not with us?”

“I’m here.”  Waverly’s voice was filtered as a pane of glass was lit.  He was sitting in a room, not far from us, guarded by our Section Three boys.  We’d offered the same arrangement for the THRUSH chief, but Mr. Gervais had declined, simply bringing his strong arms along for the ride.  I think he was truly hoping that someone would take a shot at him, but our guys knew better.

“Sir, you are aware of the charges as they stand?” I asked coming to stand by the window.

“I am.”

“Your opinion of the matter?”

“Preposterous.  If you would examine the financial records of both our organizations, you will see quite succinctly that crime does pay.  If anything, they should be providing us with a stipend…”

There was a blur of movement and I heard a crack, saw a strange flash and then something hit me, knocking me to the ground.  Not a bullet, but a body, more like a tree – hard, heavy, and solid.  There were shouts and more ‘pops’ and ‘cracks.’  

Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped.  It was then that I realized I had Napoleon on top of me, shielding me from whatever was going on.  My learned colleague had had to fend for himself and was cowering under a table.  Napoleon was flecked with bright red dots and that was when I realized that these guys play for very real keeps.  They toss their lives away the way we toss words back and forth.  Just between you and me, I very nearly passed out then.

Kuryakin, blood running down the side of his face, stood with a very lethal looking gun… pistol, sorry… aimed at the THRUSH chief’s head and had an arm around the man’s throat.  He was staring directly at Napoleon as if checking his partner’s wellbeing before continuing.  I truly believe that if Napoleon or Waverly, had been seriously wounded, Kuryakin would have offed the chief then and there without even a second’s thought.

“Weigh your options carefully, gentlemen,” he advised the three closest THRUSH agents, moving his eyes from Napoleon to the approaching enemy agents.  “At this range, I’m not likely to miss.”

The THRUSH chief gasped and clawed at the arm.  He was starting to turn a funny shade of red and for a moment, I wasn’t sure… I don’t think anyone was.  Then weapons were lowered and my heart beat started to slow down a bit and my blood pressure started to get back to normal.

The real nature of this whole twisted affair had become apparent to even the blindest individual.  THRUSH had been playing on Waverly’s sense of sportsmanship and a belief in the rules and used this to lure him out of his protective cocoon.  Perhaps we should have told them in advance the glass was bulletproof.  Oh well, it’s hard to remember everything…

                                                                                ****

It ended badly for them, especially when they suddenly realized that the entire building was actually owned by UNCLE – did I forget to mention that in any of the documentation?   And then there was the whole assault on a federal judge thing when our mediator got clipped, and we proved it couldn’t have been one of ours.  Sleeper rounds, y’know.  We ended up netting us a fair number of THRUSH that day, which had truly not been our intention.   Of course, they hadn’t gone into this asleep either.  We discovered that the THRUSH chief was actually a low ranking agent who’d been sent in.  Oh well, you win some, you lose some.

It was sort of exciting, in a sticking your finger in an electrical socket kind of way, but I was still ready to go back to my briefs, my depositions, and my legalese.  Anybody wanting to be an agent – they’d have to be even dumber than some of the guys in those dumb lawyer jokes.

That reminds me –

_How many lawyers does it take to roof a house?  
                 Depends on how thin you slice them._

 

 

 

 


End file.
